


The time we have will be ours.

by destielpasta



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Kissing, POV Nick Blaine, Post-Episode: s02e13 The Word, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 22:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: Nick watches June escape, then watches her come back through the front door.******Post-season 2 finale. This is from Nick's point of view.





	The time we have will be ours.

I meet her at the door, twigs and branches in her hair. Her white head-covering is askew.

June tells Waterford that she had gotten scared when she saw the fire. She tells him that she had been scared it would spread, and had ran and hidden in a neighbor’s yard. It doesn’t explain why the guardians didn’t see her. It doesn’t explain why Holly is missing. He sends her to her room without asking.

She doesn't look at me. Doesn’t look at Rita. We could all be corpses walking, best not to make eye contact.

Waterford runs a hand through his hair. It’s a habit of his, especially where June is concerned. His eyes are cold, and they turn to rest on me.

For a moment it looks like he’s going to throw a punch at me. It wouldn’t be far-fetched. I had all but held him at gunpoint twenty minutes ago. His eyes are light, hazel, softening the hardened look he’s trying to give me.

My self-preservation used to be so _good_. Now I have a hard time not smirking.

I leave. Fred doesn’t say a word.

*

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That night I throw four plates at the wall. They smash into fragments: some big, some dusty like powder. Eden had cooked dinner on them. They smash against the bookshelf in my room. Against the window sill. The corner of the kitchen table.

I sit on the floor by the bed, holding a fifth plate against my chest. The anger I feel is dangerous; it could get us all killed. It could make June look at me like she looks at Waterford.

How can you tell someone that you’re angry they didn’t escape when they had every opportunity? How can I tell her I’m angry that I’ll see her tomorrow, in a red dress?

I throw the fifth plate.

The anger has to stay in this room. It can’t go near June.  

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I don’t talk to her for a week. I see her, but we avoid eye contact. It’s for the best; I want to take her by her shoulders and shake her. In the same breath I want to hold her, press her body against mine. I want to ask about Holly. I don’t.

Uniformed Eyes come to the house. They sit with everyone alone, asking about Holly.

Rita comes out of the parlor ashen and shaky, but she’s allowed to return to the kitchen and continue to chop vegetables. Serena lights a cigarette while climbing the stairs. Fred goes to his offices and shuts the door. June goes out the front door, already in her white wings to go do the shopping.

The Eye shakes my hand when I sit down. Why shouldn’t he? I’ve always been a good little spy.

“Things are crazy at this house, eh man?” He says, a verbal slap on the back.

He doesn’t ask me difficult questions. Mostly _where were you_ and _what did you see_ types. I keep my answers short and my eyes earnest. He shakes my hand again, thanking me for my service.

Maybe the good-old-boys system will bring down Gilead.

*

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Two days later, I clean up the mess of broken plates on my floor. I throw the big pieces in the garbage and sweep up the rest. The glass scrapes against the floor and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I left the mess for a week. There was already dust covering it. I feel a weird sense of pride. Cleaning up messes quickly had always been my strongest suit, and my downfall, but I had let this one stew and settle. Who says people can’t change?

I made a mess of my life. Never bothered to clean that one up.

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I find June in the kitchen, one day. She washes dishes, helping Rita. She does that more, now, more than before. Sunlight streams in through the window.

A pack of smokes sits on the window sill. When had I left those there? Was it some kind of trap? I don’t think on that question for too long, the opportunity is too good.

June washes the same dish over and over again, her hands red from the hot water. Her eyes are downcast.

I step up to the sink, reaching across her to take the half-full pack and put them in my pocket.

“Excuse me,” I say.

She nods. “Under his eye.”

I gesture towards the window. “Sun’s out.”

She smiles, looking up from her dish to look through the window. “I guess. It’s Spring, whether we deserve it or not.”

I shake my head, exhaling with a smile. She never fails to make me laugh.

The water runs down the drain with a _glug_. I take the dish from her hands and dry it with a towel. _You wash, I dry._ It was something my mother and father had done, when things were good. She picks up another dish.

We continue that way for a while. She washes, I dry, and our hips and thighs touch from the way we stand. When she finishes I give her the towel to dry her hands. I take it back from her and then take her hands between mine, lifting them to my mouth. They’re warm from the water and smell like the lavender dish soap Rita makes me get from the black market.

How do you tell somethone you hate them for not leaving, but love them for staying?

She licks her lips. Takes a deep breath.

“What if that had been the last time we saw each other?”

I get what it means. _Please don’t be mad. I’m here, but please don’t be mad._

She doesn’t know yet that I purposely left my anger in the room above the garage. I would never meet her here and bring her anger.

She pitches her voice lower.

“Holly is safe. I left her with a friend. The Marthas told me that they made it out.”

I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath.

She replaces her hands with her lips, kissing me slow and soft in the yellow light from the window. I thank God for the way light glares against glass, how it makes us invisible.

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Sometimes I see her and Rita talking. June wrings her hands a lot and Rita purses her lips. They stop talking when I come near them. I don’t mind. One less pair of ears to hear will be better in the long run.

Waterford and Serena are ghosts. They pass by us in the hallways, speaking little to each other or to us. They have lost control.

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She comes to my room one night, and it feels nostalgic. Can you be nostalgic for a terrible time?

She backs me up against the wall by the door, her hands blazing hot against my neck as she kisses me. Her fingernails dig in like she wants to take a piece of me and I know it won’t be long now. She’ll be gone soon.

I undress her this time, reaching around to feel for the zipper as her hands fumble with my belt. I keep my eyes open, memorizing each facet of her, each birthmark and curve of skin. The way her waist dips in before quickly flaring out to her hips. The way her hair falls thick and substantial against her back.

We go to the bed, and I hover over her. I use my fingers on her, moving quickly inside her while her own hand touches herself. I kiss the insides of thighs and the rise of her hip bone. She shakes, grabbing for my hair. I don’t have to be asked.

Her taste explodes in my mouth when I lay my tongue against her, licking and sucking until noises fall from her mouth. Quickly, too quickly, she’s pulling me up to her level, kissing me and whispering words I can barely understand. I hear _inside_.

We turn over so that she’s on top. When she sinks down onto me, she throws her head back. I memorize the curve of her neck.

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There’s an evening when Waterford doesn’t come out of his study for dinner. Serena stays in the greenhouse until after dark. I don’t see Rita.

For some reason, I go to June’s room.

She’s wearing the clothes of a Martha when I get there, struggling to attach the greyish-green veil to her head. My hands go to her hair, helping her with the band and the pins. We don’t speak for a few minutes. My hands shake, but this feels right this time.

“I’m leaving,” she says, “Sometime tonight. I can get out. With Hannah this time.”

I secure the last pin.

I think about the room above the garage. What would I take? I can slip the picture of my brother from its frame in under a minute. Then I would be ready.

She speaks again. “Rita is waiting by the bridge. She’s coming too.”

I turn back to her. Her eyes are shining, daring me.

I open my mouth. I wish I could smile. It would make it more exciting.

She waits, her hands hanging by her sides.

I say it seriously; I think the meaning comes across.

“Want some company?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to comment :)
> 
> Come scream about the handmaid's tale to me at destielpasta.tumblr.com!


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